A White Horse Named Vicodin
by Jackyblu
Summary: House's leg is killing him today. How is he going to cope and what will Wilson do when he knows House has given up?
1. Chapter 1

A White Horse Named Vicodin

By Jackyblu

Part One

House woke up on Sunday morning and stretched. He moved his legs to the edge of the bed and placed both feet carefully on the floor. So far, so good he thought. Next he attempted to stand up. This is where things began to unravel. He sat back down again and kneaded what was left of his thigh muscle.

_Jesus Christ! _

He reached for his nightstand and grabbed the bottle then threw it across the room in anger. He didn't want ibuprofen he wanted Vicodin like every other day since he became 'clean'.

House was taking deep slow breaths when there was a quiet knock on his bedroom door.

"House. Are you all right?"

"Yeah. I'm fine," he lied. "Is there any coffee?"

"I just made a pot. You sure you're okay?"

House rubbed his hands over his face. "Yeah. I'll be out in a few minutes."

"Okay. I'll make us some breakfast."

"Fine."

Wilson moved away from the door. He knew House wasn't all right. House had been limping around the loft yesterday after bringing a few more of his things from his apartment. He had unpacked his belongings and searched for places to put his them. He had been on his feet for a long time.

House slowly rose from the bed. God he was aching. He had expected to be uncomfortable in his back and arms but he didn't expect this escalated pain in his leg. Like every morning since he had returned from Mayfield he wanted Vicodin. He knew just one would decrees his pain level to a more manageable degree. Why the hell hadn't he kept a few?

House closed his eyes for a moment and did what he always did when the cravings arose. He thought of being strapped to a bed in a room with no doorknob on his side. He thought about the pain and the terrible sensations in his body. At that time he had felt like his skin would crawl off his bones. The deep seeded need he had to move in 100 directions at once. It was wanting to die just to make it stop and not being allowed to.

House had returned from Mayfield and with Wilson for support had thrown out every pill in every hiding place. He gave Wilson the morphine kit and had no idea where it was now.

_I don't need it anymore_, he told himself for the first time today. There would be several more times he would tell himself the same thing. It had become his mantra. _I don't need Vicodin. I don't need Vicodin._ If only repeating it would lead him to Nirvana.

House walked slowly and painfully toward the bathroom picking up the ibuprofen bottle along the way. He took two and tossed the bottle on his dresser continuing his miserable walk. Entering the bathroom he reached the toilet. He had to place his left hand on the wall so he could lean a bit as he relieved himself. When he had finished he washed his hands placing his forearms on the sink to stay on his feet. Jesus he hurt so badly today.

House splashed water on his face and repeated his mantra. _I don't need Vicodin_. _I don't need Vicodin_. Who was he kidding? He would have sold his mother to white slavers for one pill. Well maybe not Mom, but Dad certainly. That thought made him snuffle a laugh. He straightened up to dry his face with a towel and nearly fell on the floor.

Wilson was making pancakes. He knew House liked them especially with macadamia nuts or some other goodie in the batter. House was like a child in many ways. Not child-like but childish. Wilson always thought that was due to his strict up bringing. John House was not a fun guy. Even Wilson knew that. So now House got his fun wherever and whenever he could. _And at whoever's expense_, Wilson thought as he flipped over the first pancake.

Wilson hummed to himself as he cooked and expected House to pop into the kitchen at any moment his nose twitching. It was nearly impossible to keep him out of the kitchen when Wilson was making breakfast. It was a bit like rattling the dog's bowl. The hound would come running.

He placed four pancakes on the plate. He stopped before placing more batter on the griddle. He walked to the living room and looked around. No House. That wasn't just weird. It was worrying.

"House? Breakfast is ready," Wilson called. "I made pancakes."

There was no sound. Wilson started for House's room when a softer than normal baritone voice came from the bedroom. "I'll be out in a minute. Still looking for a clean pair of socks."

"Okay. I'll keep them warm for you," Wilson called back.

He returned to the kitchen and placed the plate of pancakes in the microwave. He put more batter on the pan and made some for himself.

House sat on his bed and massaged his leg. This was the worst it had been for a long time. He thought of taking a bath. The hot water would sooth it. Wilson wouldn't mind. He struggled to his feet and sucked air between his teeth. The pain overwhelmed him and he became sick. He heaved into the wastebasket unable to make it back to the bathroom. Only bitter stomach bile and ibuprofen escaped him. House wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.

Wilson finished his breakfast and began washing the skillet in the kitchen. The pan clanked against the side of the sink. He scrubbed it out and hummed something House had played last night on the organ.

He never heard his best friend retching.

House rubbed his hand over his face trying to decide if he was about to be sick again. He heaved but nothing came up. His stomach convulsed a few more times before it stopped. Having dry heaves was exhausting. House again sat on the bed panting.

Wilson dried the skillet and replaced it its proper place. He had a space just for it and it had to be put back exactly, the handle pointing to the right. Very important to get it correct. If not then the large saucepan wouldn't have enough room and would brush against its smaller counterpart. They might scratch.

He wondered again about House. It didn't take fifteen minutes to find socks even for him. And there was breakfast ready. House never turned down his pancakes or anything else Wilson prepared for them.

He went to House's bedroom door and knocked softly.

"House I know you're not okay. Is there anything I can do?"

A pain filled voice puffed from the other side.

"You can let me use your bath tub."

"Sure. You need help getting to the bathroom?"

"Only all I can get," a winded voice answered.

Wilson carefully opened the door. He could smell the vomit in the room. _God he must be terrible today,_ Wilson thought. He should have known when House hadn't shown up for breakfast.

He found him sitting on the bed rubbing his leg. House's eyes were rimmed red and he was breathing through his teeth. Wilson got on the older man's left side and helped him unsteadily to his feet. He walked House down the hall through his bedroom and into the bathroom. He lowered House onto the closed toilet. Wilson plugged the tub's drain and turned on the water. He straightened up.

"Can you manage on your own or do you need help?"

House didn't have much going for him today but he did have his pride.

"I've got it."

"You're sure?"

"It's a rule of mine. Never undress in front of your mother or best friend."

Wilson looked askance at him.

"What about the 'not walking through the place naked rule'?"

House shrugged.

"Rules are made to be broken. Besides it has a clause. Naked as a means to drive your ex-wives from the building is acceptable," House said his head lowed. He rubbed his thigh forcefully.

Wilson went to the door.

"Okay, I'm right out here is you need me."

House nodded once and Wilson left the room.

House pulled off his t-shirt. He rubbed his thigh again. He had been holding back around Wilson. His chest heaved. Tears slid down his face. He couldn't stop them. His shoulders shook. He didn't make a sound.

At these times House cursed life. He cursed God. He cursed Stacy. He cursed the circumstance that had left him like this. He even cursed Cuddy and her damn suggestion that the dead thigh muscle be removed.

None of this was his fault and yet he had to pay for it every moment of every day of his life. The only time it would stop would be when he was in his grave.

He wiped his face with his right hand. This was pointless. It changed nothing. It didn't even make him feel better. His leg was still killing him. Crying came unbidden, as did his bitter thoughts. It didn't change his situation. It didn't heal his leg.

House used the sink as leverage to push himself to his feet. He slipped off his pajama pants and limped to the tub grabbing the handhold he had installed some weeks ago. He steadied himself and stepped into the tub with his left foot. He helped his right leg in. House carefully sat down in the water.

Wilson heard the water slosh in the tub. He was tense listening hard for a thud or a painful cry. When none came he relaxed. He thought again as he always did on bad pain days that this wasn't House's fault. House was a lot of things. He was a jerk who treated people rudely and with no concern for their feelings. Part of that was just House. Okay, most of it. The other part was the pain.

_No _Wilson corrected himself; _some of it is House's armor_.

When a body is badly hurt it develops a scar. If more scars occur on the same place feeling could be lost. House had scars on his leg. Unfortunately he hadn't lost feeling in it. The other place he was badly scared was his heart. Not his physically beating muscle but his metaphysical heart. The one dedicated to that higher plain called love.

House had loved and been betrayed. He trusted those few people he loved and were supposed to love him. John House was supposed to love him. How was a child to understand a parent's abuse?

Stacy. It was hard for Wilson to be unbiased about her. She did what she did for the right reasons. She loved House. She was so afraid he might die. She made her decision while he was still conscious and never told him. The surgery came against his wishes while he was unable to do anything about it. How can a person trust the one they love after that person has allow the violation of their body?

Why should House trust the people around him? He kept them at arms length. Wilson was the only one allowed to get close and even he was stopped at the sentinel's gate.

House was fun to be around. Wilson was learning to be assertive because of House. His meekness was something he disliked about himself. You couldn't help but learn from House. Being his friend was something he could count on. But House's sullenness, his pain, and his thoughtlessness were part of the package too. One had to take the good with the bad.

_It's worth it_, Wilson thought. He went to House's room and pulled out clothes for him. He took them to his own room laying them upon the bed.

House let the hot water flow over his leg. It was helping but not enough. He leaned back and closed his eyes. If only he had some Vicodin.

_If wishes were horses then cripples would ride,_ House deliberately misquoted in his head. _God, why was today worse than any other day? _

That wasn't strictly true.

His worst day was when he was in Mayfield coming off the vicodin. He had nothing to ease his pain, which felt as if it had increased to a level that would stop his heart. He begged for help. He was so desperate he threatened to kill himself. They strapped him to the bed for his own protection. He agonized through the pain as the opiate left his body.

The memory scared him to death.

House kneaded the muscle of his leg. He would never go back to that no matter what it cost him. Heat was the answer. When he got out he would sit in the living room with a heating pad on his thigh. He'd take ibuprofen to replace the pills he had thrown up. Wilson would bring him pancakes. It would be all right.

House soaked in the water for an hour. He decided he couldn't stay in there all day, as he was getting very pruned. He reached for the hand bar. Taking a deep breath he pulled himself up pushing with his left leg. He stood in the tub a little afraid to move.

He carefully helped his right leg out first. If it held his weight he would be all right. If not then Wilson would be seeing him in a heap the way he came into the world, wet and naked. It hurt like it was on fire but kept him upright. He quickly brought the left leg over and set it on the floor. He wrapped the towel around his waist and got to the toilet to sit down.

House sat there trying to see if he felt any better. He did a bit. He knew though as the leg became cooler it would feel worse. He needed to have Wilson get the heating pad and help him to the couch.

He got to his feet and went to the bathroom door. He opened it and limped into Wilson's bedroom. House saw his clothes on the bed. He sat on the edge and began to slip on underwear, jeans and a t-shirt with skulls and wings.

Wilson had retrieved the heating pad and a blanket from the closet. He returned to the living room and plugged the pad in a wall socket near the couch.

House took his cane and limped from Wilson's room to the living room. He got to the couch and sunk on to it. He placed the waiting heating pad on his thigh. He took the blanket Wilson offered and put that on his thigh too. Feeling the soothing heat made him sigh.

"Do you want breakfast?" Wilson asked concerned.

House thought his stomach could stand it. He nodded.

Wilson went to the kitchen. He warmed the food in the microwave.

"You want maple or coconut?" He called to House.

"You made macadamia nut?"

"Thought you might like them."

"First you make me pancakes, and then you offer to help me get undressed. James Wilson you're trying to seduce me."

"Damn, and I was trying to be so subtly too."

"I can't be bought cheap you know."

"Yes you can. Maple or coconut?"

"Coconut and you have to bring me flowers before I agree to anything sexual."

"Since when?" Wilson asked pouring the sticky sweetness on the golden goodies. He took a fork from the kitchen drawer.

House shifted his weight on the couch.

"I'm trying out virtue to see if it suits me."

Wilson carried the plate to the room.

"It won't fit. You're a size 42 pervert."

House took the offered plate and fork.

"Well I've lost some sleaze then. I used to be a 44."

Wilson's cell phone rang. He reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled it out. He walked out of the living room as he answered. House was his friend but he didn't need to hear Wilson's phone calls.

House dug into the food. He was surprisingly hungry. It helped that his leg didn't hurt as badly.

Wilson listened quietly. His face became serious, his mouth a straight line.

"No I'm glad you called. Tell the family I'll be right there."

Wilson hung up the phone and went after his car keys. He looked at House.

"I have to go to the hospital. One of my patients took a turn for the worst this morning. She isn't expected to live much longer."

Wilson startled House by throwing his briefcase, which he kept by the front door.

"DAMN IT!"

He paced and then went to retrieve the case talking more to himself than House.

"We had it under control! She was improving. The chemo was working."

He put the case back and continued to fume.

"Why her? Why is she the one who doesn't make it? She's a mother with three young children. Why the hell did it have to be her?!"

House spoke quietly.

"Because doctors don't get to chose who gets better and who doesn't. We do the best we can but ultimately it isn't in our hands."

Wilson looked up disgusted.

"You don't believe in God. You can't tell me He makes the decisions."

"There's no God. There's only fact and circumstance. It's a fact you did everything you could within medicine to save that woman. It's a fact she's dying. It's just the circumstance we don't know. Why is she dying? Why did the chemo work and yet her body failed?"

Wilson was beginning a slow burn. It was these times when House was so disconnected from the suffering of anyone else that Wilson thought he might hate him.

House knew Wilson was ready to explode. He softened his voice.

"There is one other fact that can't be denied. When one of your patients sours on you, you'll take it to heart. You'll blame yourself when there is no blame to pass around. People die. That is a fact. If you were negligent then it's your fault. If you did all you could then stop nailing yourself to a cross."

"I can't be like you! I feel something when my patients die!"

"Yes! You're a better person than I am. Good for you! It doesn't change a thing. She's still dying."

Wilson's eyes burned at House. He wanted to throw something at him. He hated his smug superiority. He wrenched the door open and slammed it behind him.

He was back in a couple of minutes.

"How much pain are you in?" Wilson asked standing in the doorway.

House didn't look up from his plate.

"I'm fine."

Wilson reentered the room.

"No you're not. Either your hand is shaking or those pancakes are trying to make a break for it."

House forced his hand still. In spite of the heat his leg was feeling worse.

Wilson came most of the way into the room.

"I'll stay if you need me."

House could tell Wilson was torn between his friendship for him and his need to be with a patient as their life ended.

"Go. Hold her hand. Commiserate with the family."

Wilson looked at House questioningly.

"I'll be back as soon as I can." Wilson turned back to the door.

"Hey!" House called.

"Yeah?"

"Are you going to give her the code to the morphine dispenser?"

Wilson gave House a noncommittal look. He closed the door.

"Would you give it to me?" House asked the air.


	2. Chapter 2

A White Horse Named Vicodin

Part 2

House set his plate on the coffee table. He couldn't swallow another bite. He was getting nauseous again.

He didn't know why his leg pain wouldn't ease. Like Wilson with his patient he was doing everything he could. He took the ibuprofen and used heat on the muscle. Ice would increase the cramping so that was out. He had already tried a hot bath.

"What the hell am I suppose to do?" he asked no one.

He looked over at the telephone and thought of calling Cuddy. She would be home with her daughter and with Lucas. It was a legitimate excuse to get her to the loft but he didn't need her pity. Her body yes.

He smiled at the thought.

It was quickly wiped off his face by a horrible cramp.

He cried out in pain. His hands fumbled under the heating pad to get to his leg and massage the muscle with everything he had in him.

For the second time tears wet his face. His forehead and body became moist with sweat.

House writhed unable to stop the pain. His heart pounded in his chest. He threw his head back on the couch screaming in agony.

Where were the neighbors? Were they all deaf? He needed help, now! He bellowed to God.

"LEAVE ME ALONE YOU MISERABLE BASTARD!"

House fought every second that ticked on the clock. He lay over on his side clutching his leg. He cried like a mother who had lost their young child.

The pain began to ease. House found he could swallow again. He could draw a breath. His chest was less tight and his heart began to settle slowly into a less frantic beat.

_Thank God._

House sat up carefully. He used the bottom of his t-shirt to wipe the sweat and tears from his face. The pain wasn't gone. His leg still hurt him horribly but it was better than the torture he had just experienced.

"I swear I'll never bring another thing from my apartment over here. I won't put anything away. I'll leave my things on the floor. I'll never be on my feet longer than it takes me to pee. I promise," House said to any invisible entity that might be listening.

He didn't believe in spirits and divinity but at a time like this it didn't pay to hedge his bets.

"If you leave me alone I'll face east, light candles, cover my head, take communion, wear a pentagram, be born again, burn incense, collect at airports and go on a pilgrimage. Anything you want. Just let my leg alone."

He replaced the heating pad he had knocked off when he had lain on his side. House closed his eyes. What if the excruciating pain came back?

_What the hell am I going to do?_

There was a buzzing sound. House opened his eyes. He heard it again.

_That's weird._

It sounded again.

He could swear it was the couch.

House dug down into the cushions and pulled out his cell phone.

_There you are. I thought I lost you for good._

He opened it up and read a text from Wilson.

'Don't know how long I'll be. It's getting close.'

House returned Wilson's text.

'K'

Why he didn't tell Wilson how bad things were with him House didn't know. He knew Wilson would come back if House asked him.

_Why don't I tell him?_

It wasn't that House thought the family needed Wilson more. Wilson holding a dying woman's hand wasn't going to save her. It wasn't going to lessen the grief of her family. It wasn't going alleviate Wilson's guilt.

_He can't do anything for me just like he can't do anything for that dying woman except be with her. _

That's what House wanted, someone to be there with him. Someone to care when the pain was at it's worst.

_I'm pathetic. I don't need anyone to hold my hand. I need my pain taken away._

House held his phone in his hand and looked at it. His leg had twice this morning been so bad he thought he'd die. He had tried everything he could to ease his pain. He had tried everything available to him. There was only one other thing to do and that scared him.

He stared at the phone. He could see Wilson's angry disappointed face. He heard Dr. Nolan asking him why he had given up. Cuddy was looking at him with large moist eyes and repeating his name. House. House. House.

_Yes I'm weak! I can't stand the pain. None of you understand what it's like!_

House flipped through the list of numbers in his cellular phonebook. Some of them were on his speed dial like Wilson and Cuddy. He had his team assigned as well. Just pushing one number saved time. Three was for Chase, four for Foreman and thirteen for Thirteen of course. Taub was 74678. It spelled short.

He paged through the numbers quickly. He came upon it and stopped.

_Scott._

House took a deep breath. Would he remember House? Was he still at that number?

House put the number in and pushed the call button. He waited for an answer.

"This is Scott."

"This is James."

"James. It's been a long time."

"I need some help."

"How much help?"

"What would fifty get me?"

"The minimum. Times are hard you know."

"Not as hard as here. One hundred?"

"I can get you a small amount."

"One fifty then."

"One fifty and you'll be comfortably numb for a good amount of time."

"Two hundred if you get here in less than thirty."

"I can do that."

House gave Scott the address and hung up the phone. He wondered idly what Scott's last name was. It didn't matter.

He took a deep breath. He knew he wasn't doing the right thing. He was doing the _only _thing. Didn't that make it right? It was his body and his pain. Why did it have to be anyone's business but his own?

House shifted on the couch. Not only was his leg vexing him so was his conscience.

He thought again about calling Cuddy. She would tell him he was wrong. She would urge him to think more carefully about his choice.

She would call Wilson.

That brought him back to square one.

_Damn it! This is my decision. This is my body and my brain._

He exhaled through his nose.

_And my hallucinations. _

House rubbed his eyes. His leg pain was easing off. Calling Scott had seemed like such a good idea fifteen minutes ago. Now he wasn't as sure.

He rubbed his thigh and thought that things were easier before he went to Mayfield. If you discounted that whole losing his mind thingy then he was coping pretty well thank you so much. The hallucinating dead colleagues was a setback he admit but in the grand scheme of things…

_In the grand scheme of things I ended up in a padded room._

He tried to get to his feet. He tried five times to get to his feet. He nearly succeeded on the fifth. He regained the couch panting hard.

_If at first you don't succeed, give up. No use being a damn fool about it. I think W.C. Fields said that. He also hated kids and animals. A delightful man in many ways and one I could emulate easily. However…_

House pushed himself up until he was bent double. He straightened himself until he was standing.

_See nothing to it. It just required a little ganas amigo. That's all it takes. That and the need to pee very badly._

House limped a couple of steps. His leg held him and the cramping didn't become worse. He picked up his cane and headed for the bathroom. Like before he used the wall to support himself. This time was a little easier. House washed his hands and limped to the kitchen.

He was happier now that he didn't feel the need to gnaw his leg off like a badger caught in a trap. He opened the refrigerator.

The inside was so neat with everything in its place that House had to snicker.

_Lets see. This is arranged by alpha. No it's by size. No I've got it, there are outlines of everything like my grandfather had on the pegboard in his garage. The hammer goes here, the pliers there. _

House moved the milk and located the gold in this neatly organized mine.

_Blue Moon. Come to daddy._

He pulled the bottle out of the refrigerator. He was about to put the milk back on the shelf when he stopped and put it in the door just to irritate Wilson and because it was fun. Opening the bottle and taking a swallow he glanced at the clock. It was 11:00 A.M.

_Well it's 2:00 A. M. in a dingy bar somewhere in the universe._

He took another swallow while he limped back to the couch.

He almost sat down when he remembered Scott. He had agreed to two hundred.

_Two hundred! It's amazing how you'll let yourself be exploited when you're ready to put a gun in your mouth._

House set the beer on the coffee table. He limped to Wilson's bedroom.

House cast his eyes about the room. He went to the bedside table closest to the wall. He opened the drawer and found a book, Shakespeare's 'Hamlet'. House opened it. There it was. Right where he expected to find it.

House pulled out two hundred dollars leaving three behind. He read from the page.

'Neither a borrower nor a lender be.  
For loan oft loses both itself and friend,  
And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.'

Wilson had chosen the passage to reinforce the remorse House was to feel if he simply helped himself. There was only one thing wrong with Wilson's strategy. House wasn'tLaertes and Wilson wasn't Polonius.

House replaced the book and put the money in his pocket. He limped back to the living room.

_It's not like I won't pay it back. Eventually. This is an emergency. Why else would Wilson keep that much in his drawer? It's not there just to cover pizza deliveries._

House returned to the couch. He sat carefully and picked up his beer. It was funny how well it washed down the pancakes from earlier. It must be the hint of orange in it. Wasn't that like a large glass of juice?

_Maybe Ihop should hear about this? They'd sell more breakfasts if they got a liquor license. What goes better with waffles, red, white or a nice Chianti?_

House rubbed his thigh. It was much better; there was no way to deny that. Now instead of wishing he were dead he was only in terrible pain. That was an improvement. He actually thought about talking Wilson into taking in a movie. Well maybe that was a little too ambitious for today. There was basketball and in a pinch baseball on the television.

House took another drink from his beer. He heard someone at the door.

_Good old Scott. Right on time._

House was setting his beer down and getting ready to stand when the door opened and Wilson walked in. He looked over at House.

"She went quickly. She was in a morphine haze and it was as pain free as I could make it."

He looked a House and crinkled his brow. Something about the look on House's face puzzled him.

"You okay?" He looked at the bottle. "I can understand you drinking when you're in pain but this is early even for you. Is that your first one?"

"Yeah," House answered.

He couldn't hide the fact that Wilson being home already was more than inconvenient.

_Oh my God what's he doing home now? _

Wilson was worried. House looked shocked to see him.

_What's going on with him? _Wilson wondered.

He set his keys down and walked to the kitchen. Wilson opened the refrigerator and pulled out a beer. Shaking his head he took the milk from the door and replaced it on the shelf.

"I'll join you. This morning was a little rough," he said opening the bottle.

Wilson walked back into the living room when there was a knock on the door. He set his beer down on the coffee table and went to answer it.


	3. Chapter 3

A White Horse Named Vicodin

Part 3

House nearly got up. He wanted to tell Wilson to ignore the door but that really wasn't an option. He thought fast but couldn't come up with a plausible lie.

Wilson opened the door.

"James here?"

"I'm James."

"You're not the James I know," Scott said suspiciously.

Wilson looked back behind him to the man sitting on the couch.

Scott looked in to the living room past Wilson's arm.

"Maybe I've got the wrong place."

Wilson became brusque.

"No, I'm sure you've got the right place. Just a minute and I'll get _James._ It's a pain that we have the same first names. Gets very confusing." He looked back at House. "_James_, someone is here for you."

House rose from the couch. He limped over to the door.

Wilson hissed in his ear.

"Don't use my name when you call you're bookie. I'd like to know someone won't come looking for me to break my leg if you stiff them."

House nodded and hissed back at Wilson.

"Nothing to worry about. When I place a bet I use Taub."

House stood between Scott and Wilson.

"Don't you have cupboards to rearrange?" House asked.

"I did that yesterday. Do you want me to leave you two alone?" Wilson asked his eyebrows raised.

House looked at Wilson a pained expression on his face.

"I didn't want you to find out this way. I have some action on the side."

Wilson held up his hands and shook his head. He walked away from the door and into the kitchen.

House leaned back away from the door.

"It doesn't mean I don't love you," he called.

Wilson called back.

"Yes it does. I'm through with you. See whoever you like."

'Scott' gave House a very odd look.

House called him 'Scott' because he thought the similarity between him and Scott Grimes was uncanny. Or maybe Seth Green, House couldn't decide.

"He's kidding," House said wincing.

"Yeah," Scott said with a disbelieving tone. "Look I have other places to be."

"And we need to get you on your way ASAP," House said through closed teeth.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the money. He handed it to Scott who fanned it out.

"Don't count it here," House hissed.

Scott put the money in his pocket.

"It better all be here."

"I _stole_ exactly two hundred. _Trust_ me," House said sincerely.

Scott snorted a short laugh. He slipped House a small package.

House palmed it and closed the door.

Wilson walked backed into the living room and picked up his beer.

"Who was that guy?"

House limped toward his room.

"Guy from Domino's. I owed him for a pizza party I threw.'

Wilson looked puzzled.

"When did you throw a pizza party?"

House entered his room and spoke louder.

"Three nights ago."

Wilson thought for a moment.

"The night I was on call? You had people over?"

"A few," House answered as he placed the package in his underwear drawer.

"How many is a few?" Wilson called concerned.

House limped back into the living room.

"Counting me? One."

"You threw a pizza party for yourself," Wilson said skeptically.

"I was the guest of honor," House answered with a shrug. He sat on the couch and picked up his beer.

Wilson sat on the couch.

"And Domino's waits three days to collect payment?"

"They know me," House answered.

"They know you and they still trusted you?"

"Swish," House said. "Score to the philandering Oncologist."

"No rim," Wilson said smugly.

He put his feet up on the coffee table. House gave him a sideways look.

"You insist on coasters and yet your feet can go on the table?"

"Cold drinks sweat."

"So do feet," House shot back.

"But they don't leave marks on the wood."

"Depends on how wet they are."

Wilson glanced at House.

"Even you wouldn't put wet feet on the furniture," he reasoned.

"Define wet. Like just out of the shower wet or soaked with rain water wet?"

Wilson gave House a disgusted look and removed his feet from the coffee table.

House took another pull on his beer.

How was he going to keep this secret? Wilson was already suspicious. No one would believe the crap House was spouting. Well maybe Chase, but no one else.

Wilson took a thoughtful drink of his beer.

House was being maddening again. He didn't know who 'Scott' was but he sure as hell wasn't a pizza delivery guy.

Wilson tried to imagine what it was House had done that he didn't want him to know about. He was certain money had changed hands. He was equally sure it wasn't House's.

Wilson kept a few hundred dollars for House to find. It was the 'House money'. Better his cash than House using his credit card.

The last time House did that Wilson got subscriptions to some of the higher priced magazines, the kind where few of the models wore much in the way of haute couture. With the bill Wilson received it was hard to believe they couldn't afford more material for the model's outfits. Not that Wilson was complaining. He had 'borrowed' a couple of issues himself. A guy's got to have something to read while soaking or whatever in a hot bath.

Maybe 'Scott' was a pimp? Maybe House had paid for some 'company' for the night.

Wilson shook his head. Since when do pimps make deliveries? Hookers yes. They 'delivered' all the time. Okay, that was a very bad joke he decided.

So what was House doing?

"You didn't hire another Private Detective did you?" Wilson asked straining for a solution to his query.

House looked surprised.

"Why would I do that?"

"Because you're you. You want some information on Cuddy and Lucas and since Lucas is a PI you couldn't use him. Ergo you hired someone to watch the watcher."

House leaned his head back.

"You've got me. I didn't wish to wait for Godot _ergo _I hired the guy to get the goods on Cuddy." House closed his eyes. "There must be something there I can use to stop the insanity. "

"Of course," Wilson said with a nod. "I'm glad you're taking a mature approach to her relationship."

House tipped his head.

"All's fair in love and dropping Lucas off the roof," House said taking another drink from his beer.

"Good luck with that," Wilson said beginning to place his feet back on the table absentmindedly. He caught himself before he got the right one on the tabletop.

House finished his beer in silence. He rubbed his right leg.

Wilson gestured with his beer.

"You hurting again?"

House nodded.

Wilson looked concerned.

"You were doing so well since I came home."

"I know. I can't predict when it'll hurt. Actually I can on rainy days." He rubbed a little harder.

Physically House was sitting on the couch with Wilson. Mentally he wasn't in the room. He was in his bedroom inside a drawer in his dresser.

He didn't want Wilson to know. He couldn't bear to see the disappointed and disapproving look in his eyes. House was certain Wilson would throw him out if he knew about the package.

But sometimes extreme circumstances required extreme measures.

Even after the beer House's mouth was dry.

Maybe he wouldn't need it. Maybe his leg wouldn't cramp again like it did earlier today. Maybe he could throw the parcel away. He could flush its contents down the toilet. Wilson would never know. It wasn't too late.

House closed his eyes.

Who was he trying to convince? He wouldn't get rid of the little package for fear he might really need it. If his leg became worse what would he do? How many ibuprofens would it take to prevent the pain he had this morning?

_More than an entire pharmacy could hold_, he thought bitterly.

He thought about calling Dr. Nolan. He could tell him about his leg and the temptation facing him.

But Nolan held no answers for him. House had tried for a full year to follow his psychotherapist's directions. He tried to get through everything life threw at him. He did all that was expected of him and some things that weren't.

He still wasn't happy.

And his leg hurt.

What was at the end of the rainbow? What was the prize that awaited him when the race was run?

Was it pain…or praise?

Who gave a damn.

House did. House cared quite a lot as to what his future held. It did concern _him_ after all.

_And no one else,_ he thought with equal bitterness.

Without a word to Wilson, House rose from the couch. He limped into the kitchen and threw his bottle in the recycling. He took another from the refrigerator.

House limped to his room. He closed and locked the door.


	4. Chapter 4

A White Horse Named Vicodin

By Jackyblu

Part Four

House sat on the edge of his bed rubbing his thigh. It was feeling better. Now it only felt like knives were piercing the muscle. That was an improvement.

He thought he could take the ibuprofen now. In about an hour he would feel a little better. Just an hour or so worth of waiting to get some relief.

He could do that. He could sit on the couch with the heating pad and watch TV. He might even have another beer. How bad could that be?

House rubbed his leg trying to sooth the pain within. Why were some days worse than others? He understood that damp days were worse than dry ones. That cold affected it more than heat. He was a doctor after all. It wasn't rocket science; something he found boring. A is to B with equal thrust. D goes to E and is inserted in F. How dull except for lift off. Now that was cool.

He let his mind roam freely. He needed a distraction. What could he concentrate on for an hour once he took the ibuprofen?

He could play the organ. He could watch a movie. He could annoy Wilson. That sounded promising.

Or he could take a single white caplet and be feeling much better in fifteen minutes.

House rubbed harder trying to work the remaining muscle.

Salvation was waiting for him in the top dresser drawer, the same salvation that plunged him into hell. It had also lifted him out of the pit. Which was his preference, hell or damnation? They both had something he didn't need. Pain.

_Why does it always come down to that choice for me? Why is it always the devil I know? _

Just like every time before this when House wanted Vicodin so badly his mind took him to a room with a heavy locked door and a bed with straps to hold his wrist and ankles. The thought made his stomach turn over. It scared him. He never wanted to go back through that death again.

House closed his eyes. The fear was good. The fear kept him sober.

_Not sober enough. _

To avoid his pain he had been drinking more than usual. To deal with his rejection by Cuddy he drank a bit more than that. To deal with his unhappiness he drank a bit more still. Add all those bits together and it was a bottle a night. At what point did those bottles grow and multiply? At what point did he stop deluding himself by not counting the beers with the meals he barely ate? The drinks he sneaked in his office after he finished for the night when no one was around?

How many times did he wake up and not be where he was supposed to be and not to remember where he was?

Too many nights were the answer. Even if only one, it was too many.

But it wasn't just one.

He had passed out at his desk in his office one night. He didn't open his eyes until the sickening red gold of morning came intruding through the blinds. He was both startled and alarmed. He couldn't let anyone catch him. What of the cleaning crew? Had anyone seen him snoring, a heavy vapor of alcohol surrounding his sedated form?

That worried House. Would the janitor that found him report it to his supervisor? Would the news travel around the hospital until it reached Cuddy's ears?

House rubbed his hands over his unshaven face. His eyes were blurry and the stink was on his breath.

He had to get out. He had to get home. If he timed it right he could miss Wilson. He could salvage this. He could save his ass.

House has limped to the parking lot and deeply sucked in the morning air. It was cold that morning. His leg protested but his head was gratefully clearing. He wanted to ride home without his helmet the wind in his face but now wasn't the tome to get stopped by the cops. He had had one run in with a cop and that was enough for him to know they were better left alone. After that encounter he was also very selective as to where his thermometer went. Not that he'd been scared. Well not exactly.

House had made it home without incident and felt better after a careful ride. Wilson's car was still parked on the street. House stayed out of sight around the corner until Wilson had driven away. He had let himself in and gone to Wilson's bathroom to use the tub and think.

What he thought was that Wilson knew. He hadn't been home and the most recent case was solved. He knew House hadn't come home. He knew House had nowhere else to go.

Wilson approached him carefully that afternoon. He didn't accuse. He didn't condemn. He simply asked, 'Are you okay?'

House sat on the bed and rubbed his leg. This wasn't the distraction he was looking for. Remembering that night and the look in Wilson's eyes of what, disappointment, concern, understanding, was not going to make him feel better. How could it? How could anything but the drugs? God his leg hurt.

House got off the bed and limped to the dresser. He opened the drawer.

_This isn't what I want. I can't do this again._

He closed the drawer. House picked up a bottle from the top of his dresser. He had these bottles all over the loft. He didn't want to limp too far to find relief. Wilson had made sure they were available to him.

House opened the bottle and dry swallowed two ibuprofen. He let out a small ironic laugh. As a nephrologist he knew it was bad for the kidneys. Where as high doses of acetaminophen was bad for the liver. He knew all this. Hell even people with no medical degree knew prolonged use of such drugs were bad. Alcohol wasn't the answer either. It was bad for the liver and not too good for the brain.

_If the pain doesn't kill me the remedies will. Not a fair trade._

House was filled with bitter thoughts.

His leg wasn't his fault. He hadn't been in an accident or injured due to his own mistake. He had an infarction. He placed the blame squarely with a God he didn't believe in. It wasn't logical but there it was a place to vent his anger and pain. It was God's fault. Not his.

He also didn't ask for the operation that took place as he slept. He was so blindsided when he found part of his thigh missing he didn't know where to place his anger. First he was too dazed by the morphine. When the pain came in overwhelming waves he could focus on nothing else. He had so believed he would get through the worst of it if he slept. He had just needed time. That was all, just time for everything to wash through his system. How could he have been so wrong?

When he was coherent he discovered the truth. He was missing part of his leg.

House tried to place the blame again with God but this wasn't his doing. This had been done by someone he loved. House tried, he really tried to blame Cuddy. That was a shock. How could someone he was drawn to in his past reach out and hurt him so badly in his future? In his drug numb state he even tried to think of her punishing him for sleeping with her and never contacting her again. God if he had only known!

But ultimately he let go of that thought. The person who had betrayed him was sitting by his bed every possible moment. She was holding his hand. She smoothed his hair. She stroked his cheek. She cried. She told him she was sorry and had only wanted him to live.

He ignored her. He fired irrational anger at her. He couldn't be consoled.

House closed his eyes and sighed. This had all happened long ago. Maybe a lifetime ago, he was never sure.

_This isn't helping. Every time my leg gets really bad I go back there. I have to let it go._

House thought of calling Dr. Nolan. Maybe if he could talk to someone he would feel better. Maybe someone could talk him off the ledge he was on. On one side was pain and if he leaned too far the other way he would fall into chasm that was drug dependency.

"House? You okay in there?"

_Wilson._

House shook his head. All this time there was someone he could talk to, someone who had been there all along, his best friend, the one person who had come down this road with him.

"Yeah. I'm fine."

"You need anything?"

House smiled a little. His leg hurt too much to allow him any more.

"Is the heating pad still on?"

"It turns itself off after a while. I'll turn it back on for you. You need help?"

There was the nature of James Wilson. So eager to help and always there to care.

"I can manage."

_I think._

House heard Wilson leave his door. He took a deep breath and picked up his cane. Maybe he would get through this episode. For no particular reason he glanced at the clock. It felt like he had been in his room for hours but it had been only thirty minutes. Pain does funny things to time. When you're waiting for it to lessen or for the next time you can take another dose of whatever is needed it drags on for millennia. It was the nature of the beast.

He limped to the door of the bedroom. The thigh was cramping again.

"Wilson!" House yelled.

Wilson rushed back to the bedroom in a panic. If House was calling for him things had to be bad.

He didn't ask questions he simply put his arm around House and helped him to the couch. It was needed. House could barley support himself. Wilson eased him down onto it and placed the heating pad on the painful area. He hurried to the kitchen and returned with a large pot just in case House was sick again. House let his head drop back on the back of the couch. He closed his eyes. His breathing ragged.

"Do you need ibuprofen?" Wilson asked anxiously.

House shook his head. "Just had two." Perspiration covered his upper lip and forehead.

Wilson nodded. He was oddly relieved. Since he had removed the morphine kit from House's apartment House had never once asked where it was. That was hopeful. House really was battling his demons.

The heat was helping relax the muscle. House exhaled a breath he didn't realize he was holding.

_Thank God!_

It was a testament to House's strength that he was amused at the thought.

What idiot blames and denies a supreme being and then beseeches Him to stop his pain and then thanks Him if it happens? Now that's hypocritical!

Wilson watched as House's breathing became easier. This was the worst time to be his friend. There was nothing he could do but watch when House was in this level of pain. Well actually there was one thing.

"Do you want me to take you to the hospital? We can put you to sleep. You don't need to keep going through this."

House raised his head and looked at Wilson. It was a tempting offer. But if he were honest with Wilson he had never been able to think of it as an option ever since he had awakened in the hospital years ago. He knew it was irrational. Most fears were. But the idea made his knees weak.

Not that I'm standing.

He shook his head. He would have to be trying to bite the limb off before he would allow himself to be put out like that again. How stupid.

"It feels a little better."

Wilson looked at him with sad understanding.

"It wouldn't be like last time. I swear. I would never let anything be done that you weren't fully aware of."

House shook his head again.

"No."

"Okay. It's your choice," Wilson said softly.

House nodded. It was his choice and for now he couldn't even entertain it.

The muscle relaxed completely. House opened his eyes wide as if a room full of people had surprised him yelling 'Happy Birthday'. He flexed his foot waiting for the cramping to begin again. He didn't want to chance bending his knee. Why tempt fate? When nothing happened he smiled wide and exhaled a laugh.

"It's gone," he told Wilson with delight.

Wilson's smile surpassed House's in size. "You did it. You got through it without drugs or alcohol."

House couldn't stop chuckling. He had come so close. He had nearly tossed everything away to stop his agony. But he hadn't. He had been stronger this time. He had come though the gates of hell instead of signing up for a condo there.

"You think you could eat?" Wilson asked still smiling.

"You still have some pancakes?"

"Yes."

"I think I could manage a few," House answered. "Don't want them to go to waste."

"As if food around you ever does," Wilson said sarcastically.

"Well someone has to eat your lousy cooking."

Wilson stood up. "You didn't think my chicken cocovan was so bad last night."

House shrugged. "You did use wine," he accused.

"For some strange reason we were out of cognac," Wilson countered.

House shrugged again. "We were out of bourbon."

"Wonder why?" Wilson commented going to the kitchen.

This was good. The verbal sparring with House was a sign he was in less pain.

House watched him go. He was overwhelmed with gratefulness that his leg had stopped cramping. The pain he felt in it now was familiar. It was within the scope of his being. He could deal with this. He wished with all his heart he didn't have to. But that wouldn't change his circumstance. It was part of him. It was his day to day existence. The pain was his and it belonged to him alone. That sucked.

He thought again of the package in his dresser drawer. He hadn't used it this time.

What about the next? Would he be this strong again? What if it happened tonight or tomorrow?

It was a thought that nearly froze his heart.

I can't. I can't do this again. I can't.

It wasn't just that the pain would come back. It would, sometime. It was a question of when. This time it had taken nearly everything from him. It wasn't as bad as when he was in Mayfield but it was damn close. No it wasn't. _Nothing _was as bad as those first days in Mayfield. Nothing!

House closed his eyes. The opiates were in his dresser.

Wilson warmed the pancakes in the microwave. He got out the syrup and a fork.

Wilson wasn't stupid. He knew House had purchased drugs. He was hoping House wouldn't succumb to their lure. He hoped House was strong enough. It was a lot to ask when he didn't have the first clue what it was like to suffer debilitating pain. Who could understand it but someone who suffered in a like manner? He saw suffering in his patients. He saw people who preferred drugs or death. It was hard on the families. It was harder the closer you got to the person in pain. Wilson was close but never enough to get his hands dirty.

That wasn't strictly true. He had written House scrips for Vicodin. He had done so knowing House took too many. He had lied to Tritter about it. He justified it by saying that House saved lives. That was true. It was sad that the only life House couldn't salvage was his own. Wilson had stood by and watched on a daily basis. How cruel was that?

House had gone down the rabbit hole alone and clawed his way back out the same way. Alone.

_What kind of bastard am I? _Wilson thought. _How do you let a friend slip the needle in his arm at his own execution? How do you keep him from throwing himself off a cliff?_

"You care," Wilson answered himself. "No matter what."

He picked up the plate of food and returned to the living room. He handed it to House.

"Want a napkin?" Wilson asked.

House quirked an eyebrow at him his head tilted to one side.

"You're right. That was a silly question," Wilson conceded. "After all you have the back of your hand for that."

House dug into the pancakes. They were good and he enjoyed them all the more without pain and drugs interfering.

"They're good aren't they? I added a little pineapple juice."

House just nodded and continued to eat.

Wilson gathered himself for what was to come next. He wasn't a friend otherwise.

"You bought drugs."

It wasn't a question. A question didn't have to be asked. It was a simple statement. If House denied it then there was another problem to deal with. If he admitted it then that gave Wilson permission to go further. This was the line drawn in the sand. Go across it or let him deal alone with the rising tide.

House didn't look up. He didn't need to. He could see Wilson trying to keep the worry off his face. He did a fair job of it except in his eyes. Wilson never quite managed that.

"Yes."

Wilson shifted his stance.

"Heroin?"

"No. I didn't buy the white horse," House said quietly.

"Then you got a white pony. How much Vicodin do you have?"

House took another bite keeping his eyes lowered.

"Enough to last a month or a lifetime that lasts two days."

Wilson squeezed his eyes shut. God how bad had this time been if suicide was even remotely on his mind.

"You're stronger than that."

House looked up.

"Evidently because I'm still here eating these lousy pancakes. Pineapple juice? Seriously?"

Wilson didn't smile.

"So now what happens?" He ventured.

House sighed. "Now you flush two hundred dollars down the toilet."

"You sure?" Wilson asked. He then wanted to tear his tongue out by the roots. What the hell made him ask that?

"Yeah. I'm sure." House answered firmly. "I don't want to ride this horse. He's bucked me off too many times."

"Where?" Wilson asked.

"My underwear drawer," House answered.

"Clever. No one would come ten feet near it."

"Well no one you've ever been introduced to."

Wilson walked to House's bedroom and removed a small package from the dresser drawer.

House was finishing his pancakes when he heard the toilet in his bathroom flush.

He closed his eyes.

"Well that's one of my stash gone," he whispered.

In a secret place in another building there was one more left.


End file.
